


Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis

by CanadianGarrison



Series: The Long Way Home [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But Read it anyways really it's okay trust me, Hanukkah Fluff, M/M, Multi, Someone's having a baby, Songfic, Tom Waits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:39:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8982169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/pseuds/CanadianGarrison
Summary: It's Christmas Eve and the first night of Hanukkah, and the boys get a very special postcard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my series "The Long Way Home", you don't *have* to read them in order but it would probably help.
> 
> Each story comes with an associated Tom Waits song. That's right bitches, songfic! I know, I don't always listen to the songs when other people post songfic, but please, please listen to the song I link when you read each story? I love Tom Waits and want to share him with you, and I think hearing the song will add to the experience.
> 
> The song for this story is "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis" which you can [listen to here](https://youtu.be/mxVo5mjK4eg). I would love to hear what you think about the song, Tom is my favourite musician.
> 
> Many thanks to my #smuttyladies and azile_teacup for audiencing and editing. All mistakes are my own, and sadly I do not own the characters.

Aramis arrived home to find Porthos sitting alone at the kitchen table, tears running down his face, a piece of paper in his hand. He took the last few steps through the house at a run, coming to a stop with one hand on Porthos's shoulder. Porthos didn't look at him; he took a shuddery breath and kept staring at what Aramis now realized was a postcard. 

“What is it, what’s happened?” Aramis asked frantically.

Porthos finally turned to face him, and it wasn't sorrow or pain in his eyes – it was joy. His emotions were as big as everything else about him, and it was not unusual to see Porthos crying happy tears; Aramis knew what that looked like on Porthos and recognized it immediately. He took a step back, left hand on his chest as if to calm his rapidly-beating heart, and took a few deep breaths, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“It’s Flea,” Porthos explained, his brown eyes shining. “She's pregnant.”

“Oh, that's wonderful! They've been trying for so long.” Flea and Charon had been planning and saving and presumably doing the other things people did to make babies for about two years, and they’d had more than their share of false starts and dashed hopes. They were orphans themselves, Aramis knew, had lived with Porthos in the orphanage before he was put in the foster care system, but their hearts were set on having a biological child. 

“Yeah,” Porthos answered, his voice still gravelly with emotion. “I guess Minneapolis agrees with them.”

“Can I read it?” Porthos handed over the postcard, one side festively bright, a snowman flying through the air, carrying a child who was definitely not dressed warmly enough for such things. On the back was Flea’s writing, familiar after years of postcards sent from all around the world. Just a few words, not even filling up the meager space allotted. 

> _ Porthos, _
> 
> _ I'm pregnant.  _
> 
> _ Due in July.  _
> 
> _ Be my doula? _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Flea  _

Aramis sat down, set the postcard on the table, took one of Porthos's hands in his own. Porthos was still crying, and desperately needed to blow his nose, but Aramis wouldn't miss this moment for anything. 

“Porthos, we're going to be  _ uncles _ !” 

Maybe Porthos wasn't the only one crying, at that.

* * *

Athos came home an hour later; Aramis and Porthos both still in the kitchen. Aramis had retrieved Kleenex and made tea, brought the supplies so Porthos could roll them a smoke, but other than that they'd just spent the time talking about Flea and Charon, reminiscing and wondering what the future would bring.

“Athos, come in, we have news!” Aramis called out when he heard Athos enter the house. Athos walked through to the kitchen, still wearing his coat and scarf, though he'd left his boots by the front door. 

“Good news, I hope?” Concern in his voice and eyes, but Athos wasn't as worried as Aramis had been – all the people he loved in the world were right here, Aramis knew, so Athos could see that it couldn't be  _ that  _ bad. Well, maybe not all – d’Artagnan had become important to them in the past few months, and he was at work until 9, even though it was Christmas Eve. 

“Flea’s pregnant,” Porthos announced, and he leaned back, spreading his arms wide for the hug Athos immediately bestowed upon him. It ended with Athos in Porthos's lap and Aramis's tea nearly splashing the precious postcard, which Athos rescued just in time, holding it up to examine the picture. 

“Raymond what's his name, Briggs.” Athos said. “My mother used to send out Christmas cards with his art every year.”

“Hmph,” Porthos scoffed. “Only thing they have in common.” He shifted a little in his seat, careful not to dislodge Athos. 

“Flea will be a wonderful mother,” Athos stated decisively. “And we’ll visit, whenever she allows.”

“Of course we will,” Aramis said. “We should call her right now, let her know we got the postcard.”

* * *

 

When d’Artagnan got home at about nine thirty he found Aramis, Athos and Porthos huddled around a laptop in the dark living room, lit only by the many-coloured lights of the Christmas tree and a FaceTime call. He left them to it, changing out of his work clothes and putting together a snack, making it back to the living room in time to hear a round of congratulations and goodbyes. 

“So, what's up?” d'Artagnan asked. 

“Aramis got yelled at by a client, Flea and Charon are going to have a baby, and it's past time to light the Hanukkah candles, we were waiting for you,” Athos answered. 

D’Artagnan nodded slowly, trying to figure out where to begin. 

“It was really nice of you to wait for me, thanks. Let's do that, and then you all can tell me about the rest?” 

They followed Porthos over to the big bay window that looked out onto the street, where he had already set up his menorah; the day before he’d shown it to d’Artagnan and told him a bit about the holiday. Porthos had explained the history of it, and how the dates worked – Hanukkah wasn't usually on the same day as Christmas – and how the Blacks had taught him to make latkes the year before he’d moved out, so he’d always think of them when he used their recipe.

In the darkened room, Aramis took one of Porthos's hands and one of Athos's, and Athos reached out to d’Artagnan, connecting all four of them together. Then Porthos lit a match, used that to light a candle, held the candle up and started singing. 

D'Artagnan had met Jewish people before but it was his first time hearing someone sing in Hebrew or do any kind of Jewish ritual. He kept thinking Porthos was done, and Porthos kept starting up again – three different times, in the end, and he lit the other candle in the menorah near the end. Once the silence had lasted for more than a couple seconds, he risked a question. 

“So, uh… what's that mean?”

“Blessings,” Athos said. “For the holiday, and the miracles God performed, and for sustaining us to reach this day.” Porthos nodded along as Athos explained. Then he smiled, started singing again, but this time it was a song, a joyful song, and Aramis joined in. 

“It's in Yiddish,” Athos whispered to d’Artagnan, “I love this song.” 

“Presents!” Aramis exclaimed when the song ended. 

“Now?” d’Artagnan asked. “I thought we said we'd wait for tomorrow morning.” He hadn't finished wrapping them yet, it had been hard enough figuring out what to get his new friends. 

“Yeah, but I like to give Hanukkah presents on the first night,” Porthos explained. He disappears upstairs for a few minutes, came back with three packages wrapped in silver paper and handed them out. D'Artagnan eagerly tore into his, Athos and Aramis opened theirs a bit more sedately. 

They each got a pair of socks – Athos's looked like bacon, Aramis's were covered in rainbows, and d’Artagnan’s had bicycles on them. Wrapped up in the socks were a wooden dreidel and little net bags of chocolate coins in bright foil wrapping. 

“Thanks, Porthos,” d'Artagnan said, heart full of love. He stepped into Porthos's open arms for a hug, flanked by Athos and Aramis, and the four of them stood there for a few minutes, holding each other in the light of the Hanukkah candles and Christmas tree. 

“Latkes tomorrow?” Athos asked. 

“Definitely,” Porthos answered. “Right after presents. Better go to sleep, or Santa won't come!”

“Don't need him,” Aramis sighed dreamily, still fondling his new socks. “We've got you.”

“Right, a black Jewish Santa.” Porthos's voice was amused, dismissive. 

“I can think of no one better,” Athos said, and d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. Porthos was generous, well-travelled, and fat; he wasn't as judgemental as Santa, perhaps, but d'Artagnan would choose Porthos any day.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> Some but not all of these stories will be smutty. I’m open to suggestions, if there are things you’d particularly love to see happen, just leave a comment or message me on Tumblr.


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